


Friends in The Dark

by TheNightling



Category: The Sandman (Comics)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-22 05:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22510348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNightling/pseuds/TheNightling
Summary: This fan fiction is inspired by the currently circulating idea of Hob actually being the one to rescue Morpheus from his imprisonment after Morpheus misses their centennial meeting.   In the new Netflix Sandman series Morpheus’ captivity has been extended from seventy-two-years to about a hundred and ten years.  That means Morpheus would have missed his annual meeting with Hob Gadling.This fan fiction may be read as a pseudo-sequel to the fan fiction titled “Time will Crawl” however, this fan fiction can be read completely on its own without any difficulty.The title is from a song that technically doesn’t exist yet except in the dreams of Aurelio Voltaire.  The lyrics are currently housed in the library of The Dreaming but should reach The Waking World within the next year.  I know them because I heard a short live version of the refrain on Youtube.“You can sit in the cold dark night,And just hope for a spark.You might make your way in the day,But you’ll need friends in the dark.” – Lyrics by Voltaire.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Friends in The Dark

Friends in the Dark: 

Disclaimer: This is a Sandman fan fiction. The Sandman belongs to Neil Gaiman and DC Comics.

This fan fiction is inspired by the currently circulating idea of Hob actually being the one to rescue Morpheus from his imprisonment after Morpheus misses their centennial meeting. In the new Netflix Sandman series Morpheus’ captivity has been extended from seventy-two-years to about a hundred and ten years. That means Morpheus would have missed his annual meeting with Hob Gadling.

This fan fiction may be read as a pseudo-sequel to the fan fiction titled “Time will Crawl” however, this fan fiction can be read completely on its own without any difficulty. 

The title is from a song that technically doesn’t exist yet except in the dreams of Aurelio Voltaire. The lyrics are currently housed in the library of The Dreaming but should reach The Waking World within the next year. I know them because I heard a short live version of the refrain on Youtube. 

“You can sit in the cold dark night,  
And just hope for a spark.  
You might make your way in the day,  
But you’ll need friends in the dark.” – Lyrics by Voltaire. 

___________________________________________________________ 

Friends in the Dark

Chapter 1: 

Friends will be friends:

“What do you mean you can’t find him?”  
“I mean... If he is who I think he is, he will only be found if he wants to be found.” The old man replied in a tone that sounded like an effort at gentleness.  
“I didn’t tell you he was anyone other than my friend.” Robert Gadling said in exasperation. He was tired and frustrated. The man he was talking to was supposed to be the best in his field.  
“Look, the man you described… He’s not quite a man. He’s… How do I put this? He’s the Oneiromancer. He’s Morpheus. King of Dreams and Nightmares. And if you angered him-“  
“I may have wounded his pride but I know him. I know he would have come.”  
“How can you be so certain?”’  
“I told you, he’s my friend.”  
“Creatures like that don’t have any friends.”  
“If you can’t help me just say so and stop wasting my time.” Robert said in annoyance.  
The man sighed. “You don’t have anything that belongs to him. If you had something maybe we could cast a tracking spell, but he could obscure himself against things like that if he doesn’t want to be found.”  
The man’s expression changed. It was subtle but it was troubling.  
“What? What is it? There’s something you’re not telling me.” Robert said.  
“No one’s seen The Sandman in over a century… There are rumors from The Underworld that something may have happened…”

Robert was growing impatient and now worried. Few things could really surprise him and right now he felt like he could be told anything and handle it in some stride. He reached into his old coat and pulled out the torn fabric of dark velvet Victorian Jacket.  
“What is that?”  
“I accidentally tore it from his coat when he was having his little tantrum the last time we spoke. Is that enough to track him with?”  
“And you kept it all this time?”  
“At the time I worried I’d never see him again. …I thought it might be the only memento, proof he was real…” He felt silly and sentimental.  
“So there is a chance he’s deliberately avoiding you?”  
Robert’s face was reddening. “Look, I haven’t survived seven-hundred-years purely on my good looks. I trust my instincts. If he doesn’t want to see me, fine, but I have to see him first. I have to know for sure.”  
Saying something like that to anyone else might have looked completely insane but Robert Gadling knew the old magicks. He understood sorcery and he knew the old man was aware of his true age.  
Robert (Hob) Gadling had been born in the fourteenth century of England. He looked like the average middle aged man but he had long ago decided not to die and had somehow succeeded in this endeavor, whether by sheer will, or the invention of Death herself, it was hard to say. But he believed it was by his own will that he refused to die. At least that was the explanation that enabled him to sleep easily at night. Death, on the other hand, knew better…

Currently Robert was clean shaven though he had worn facial hair in the past. He had light brown hair and brown eyes. He was light skinned as many English men of his original time were. He figured he was a little short by modern standards but that didn’t bother him. He had been tall by common standards in his own time. He wondered how strange he’d seem in other people the centuries to come.  
Robert (or Hob as he was sometimes known by those old enough to remember Hob as a nickname for Robert) was wearing fairly mundane clothes. He had a plain button down shirt and blue jeans. The clothes were generic enough that he could have been wearing them in the nineteen sixties or nineteen nineties and no one would have questioned it as being out of place. You live long enough and you learn what fashions will survive multiple decades without too much scrutiny. And it becomes far, far easier to do simple clothing shopping. 

During Hob’s last encounter with his friend, Hob had made the bold move of admitting to Morpheus that he knew the reason they met every century was because he (Morpheus) was lonely.

Morpheus had not taken that well at all. In fact Morpheus had taken offense to that notion. With his pride wounded, Morpheus had sad “You dare? You dare imply I might befriend a mortal? That one of my kind might NEED companionship? You dare to call me lonely?”  
Hob was not technically mortal. He had not been mortal in a very long time but his friend had a way of looking at anyone who had been born human (even if they became something else, or gained immortality) as “mortal.” His prejudice was showing along with wounded pride.  
Hob had stood his ground. “Yes. Yes, I do.”  
As Morpheus had stormed off in his anger Hob had called after him. “Tell you what. I’ll be here in a hundred years’ time. If you’re here then, too-- It’ll be because we’re friends. No other reason. Right? …Right?”

At the time he had feared Morpheus might not return for their centennial meeting. He hoped he would return. But Hob had also feared Morpheus would not. 

Hob felt foolish and almost like a stalker in wanting to track him down now but his seven-hundred-year-old instincts were telling him that something was wrong. And if Morpheus was avoiding him he would apologize and they could go their separate ways once and for all but if there was another reason… He had to know for sure… He needed… closure at the very least.

The older looking man was starting to look thoughtful. “You keep things like this and out-right say the Lord of Dreams was having a temper tantrum?” The old wizard let out a wheezing laugh. Perhaps he was reading Hob’s thoughts, his very memory of the last time he and his friend had spoken and parted ways.  
“If you’re not his friend you’ve got balls.” He shook his head. “Even if you are his friend you’ve got balls… Follow me.” He seemed to admire Hob on some level and this shifted into respect.

Hob and the old wizard walked from the dimly lit, and very cluttered, occult shoppe’s main room. They entered a private back room that served as a magical laboratory. The laboratory was no less cluttered than the main part of the shoppe. There were books in chaotic little stacks and piles. There were bottles of potions and powders on the shelves in a variety of colored jars and containers. Some glass, some modern plastic Tupperware and labeled with white tape or stickers with writing done in black, felt-tip, marker. There were odds and ends of magical trinkets and crystals. And on the far side of this room was a small “hot plate” device plugged into the wall with a rather large cooking pot on top of it. A make-shift modern cauldron.

The old man carried the torn, old, velvet over to the cauldron and took up a crystal that was wrapped in a black cord. He set to work on the tracking spell. The contents of the cauldron, which was murky and brown, began to bubble from the heat and then the bubbles began to rapidly and probably unnaturally increase. The crystal was spinning, spinning faster and faster as it dangled from the black cord.  
Something was reaching its crescendo. 

The old wizard set down the crystal on the edge of the cooking pot with the cord it was attached to.  
He grabbed Hob’s arm. “GET DOWN!”  
Hob had lived long enough to not question the command and instead, by pure reflex, descended into a crouch under the wooden table with the old man. There was a crashing sound as bits and pieces of crystal went flying everywhere.  
“Gadzooks, Man! ...That’s not good, is it?” Hob asked, stating the obvious as he slowly lowered his arms from where they were over his head to protect against crystalline shrapnel.  
The old man shook his head and politely seemed to ignore the near-comedic use of an archaic exclamation. “He’s either blocking the spell or-“  
“Or someone’s blocking it for him…”

__________________________________________________ 

Chapter 2: 

Time:

Time will crawl… And crawl, and crawl, and crawl…

Come! Come! Come! 

Morpheus had felt the words as surely as he heard them, faint and echoing in the void. Old magick. It had felt it like a tugging at his very soul. He was too weak to resist the pulling that dragged him down, down, down… Forcibly pulling at his essence. 

He had fallen forward and slammed into hard flooring. He had been disorientated at the sudden presence of gravity. He could feel the magick of the binding circle sealing him in, closing him off from all those who had a psychic link with him within his realm. He saw them, the mortal occultists, in their dark robes, as they moved to get a closer look at their prisoner. They moved like a swarm of insects. He blinked his completely-black eyes behind the tinted lenses of his helm. The tiny star pupils being the only hint that there was more than mere darkness to be seen in his eyes. 

He lay there, stunned and …and so very tired… He had never felt so weary in his long life… He had struggled so hard against the summoning magick and after that he could barely keep his eyes open. Someone had grasped at the helm he wore. Someone grabbed at it with both hands. Someone tipped his head, against his will, to carefully remove the helm. They took full advantage of his weakness and disorientation. Someone pulled the helm free from his head. He had felt his own dark fall around his bone-white face. His cloak was taken. Without the cloak he actually felt the cool, damp of the cellar in English summer time. Never mind about the cloak. That could easily be replaced. He could conjure another… as soon as he was free he could conjure another... 

He blinked. The ruby amulet was snatched and finally the pouch of infinite dream sand was snatched away. The pouch was something he loathed to be without. He felt more naked without that pouch than without raiment. That he could not allow. He summoned what strength he had left and sat up to reach for the pouch. He stopped as if there was an invisible wall in front of him. He could not pass the edge of the magical binding circle, which was on the ground around him, and he knew it. His belongings were just out of reach…  
The attempt to cross the circle was as impossible as asking a mortal simply leap over a building. It was just impossible for him. 

So tired… So very tired… The room was growing dim and the floor was strangely inviting. He fainted…

That was as close as he had ever gotten to true sleep. He did not, by nature, sleep… 

Trapped. Observe. Threats. Patience. Patience… Patience…

It had been many years since that first night in nineteen sixteen…

When Roderick Burgess had died not much had changed for Morpheus. Roderick’s son, Alexander, was the one holding him captive now. 

At some point, relatively recently, he had over-heard someone mention the year as being twenty nineteen. 

Morpheus made no show of his feelings to his captors. He simply sat there on the floor of his crystalline cage, staring out at the two guards.

In nineteen sixteen The Dream Lord had been drawn down, summoned and trapped with their (as he saw it) “petty hedge-magicking.” What year was it now? Close to twenty-twenty, he suspected. It was hard to tell. 

Mortals tend to have this naive fantasy that time moves differently for creatures such as himself, being ageless and (for all intents and purposes) immortal. Unfortunately that was not the case.  
If only he could just blink and it would seem a century had passed. No. Sadly, this fantasy was merely that, a fantasy. As mortals age they perceive time differently from when they were children. In childhood summers would seem to go on and on. As adults, however, whole decades seemed too short and so they imagine that is how time must be for immortals, an ever increasing sense that this or that passage of time was too short and so nothing to them. If only that was the case…

No. He felt time. He felt time the way mortals do. Time moved no differently for his kind as it does for mortals. And in prison it crawled at a snail’s pace. Perhaps it was even worse for him because, as the living embodiment of dreams, he usually did not sleep. That meant the third of the day that human prisoners could escape their bonds by entering his realm, he could do no such thing. There was no relief.

Imprisoned time moved agonizingly slow, like the crawling of a snail. And unlike mortals he did not have that blessed release of sleep. He was, after all, the lord of Dreams. He never dreamed, himself…  
No. He never dreamed. All he could do was remember…

He remembered his own wounded pride on the night he stormed off from his friend. How he longed to set that right.

He sat on the floor of the crystalline cage that they had long ago placed around him. The curved glass of his crystal prison reminded him of a fortune teller’s crystal ball only just big enough to hold a full-sized human man. How menacing the mortals managed to seem when looming over him, just outside of the crystal, where light and size were distorted from his quartz-crystal prison and shadows hung heavy over the glass. 

Quartz crystal has innate power. It could contain and confine magick. It held him as surely as the binding circle around his cage- as firm and unyielding as stone or steel to a mortal’s prison. 

The mortal captors had been clever to make his cage out of crystal. Everyone knows most mineral and glass come from sand. Burnt and reshaped sand. The thing that he used to sculpt dreams now worked to trap him.  
The binding circle that they had drawn on the floor held his spiritual essence while the crystalline prison held his physical form. Both of these traps would need to be broken or opened for him to be able to truly escape. 

He was hungry. They had never thought to feed him in all the years he had been their prisoner. They just assumed that he did not need food. And he did not need it per se. He would not die without food but he still felt hunger, nevertheless. A great and terrible, gnawing hunger. And he was not about to ask for food. He was far too proud for that. And he would not give them the satisfaction to show them that he suffered for not eating. It would not kill him but he still suffered for it.  
He tried not to think about the hunger, that aching, hollow feeling chewing away within himself. Eager to eat just about anything. Even a baked potato would have been nice. Do the English still bake potatoes? He wondered.  
He could imagine the taste. The potato’s skin cooked so thoroughly that it was like parchment around the soft white inside that could be crushed by the pressing of a fork. Flavored with salt, pepper, butter, sour cream. Perhaps some mild cheddar cheese and crushed bacon…  
He wasn’t one for heavy meals but this simple one that he imagined seemed divine. He could practically taste it. No. He would go mad if he let himself think about the hunger too long. Try to think about something else…

He thought of Hob. He thought of the smell of the Kerosene lamps and the candle wax in the late Victorian pub. The strange sense of warmth and that feeling that was the direct opposite of being lonely. He missed that warmth. That sensation of… not-lonely.  
He missed Hob…  
He thought of his own wounded pride. The anger he had felt when Hob had suggested that they (Hob and Morpheus) were friends. How foolish he had been to not return to Hob sooner. Would he ever see his friend again?  
He longed to set things right- to do or say something subtle to admit to Hob that he was right without actually saying the words that his pride did not want him to speak out loud. He thought of the clever ways he could perhaps acknowledge that yes, they were, in fact, friends without uttering an apology or acknowledgement of being wrong. He couldn’t dare admit, even to himself, that he was wrong. And it was Hob’s own fault, wasn’t it? He was the one who had to spoil things. He was the one who had to go and poke at the situation and demand confirmation. Why did he have to spoil it by making him have to call their situation a friendship?  
He missed him so much…

Morpheus blinked. He was no longer in the pub, storming away from Hob. He could no longer taste the discarded wine still on his lips. His memories were as vivid and real to him as dreams are for most people. It was as close as he could get to dreaming… remembering…  
He was back in his cage. Staring at the two guards just beyond the glass.

What time was it? Guessing from the two particular guards and the wrist watch that one of them wore, it was close to three in the afternoon. It was hard to tell from his little prison. He had not seen the sun (or stars) in over a century.  
If only he could sleep as mortals sleep. If only he could experience that sweet, temporary release, just once. To simply know what it was like to lose oneself to a third of the day in The Dreaming… Mortals had no idea of the treasure that they had, the gift that he, himself, usually provided. A gift that he, himself, could never know… had never known…

________________________________________________

Chapter 3: 

What Dreams may come:

Hob Gadling pulled to the side of the road, in the red nineteen seventy-three MGB convertible. He had owned this particular automobile since the days when it was new. Today he figured it would be considered a classic. Yeah, a classic, all right… Polished up nice but rusted in all the important areas and a serious petrol guzzler. The car looked nice but it was about as functional as any old jalopy or puddle jumper. He only chose it today because it was a car he wouldn’t mind abandoning in a field if he had to. 

He was parked about a quarter of a mile from Fawny Rig in Wych Cross, Sussex England. The paperback copy of an occultist’s memoir sat on the passenger seat beside him. It was some self-published nonsense about The Order of Ancient Mysteries but it was Hob’s first real clue about what happened to his friend.

For over thirty years he had searched. And he had found one dead end after another, including a few attempted cons and scams from people who thought they could take advantage of a mad man trying to find a character from a faery tale. 

The book had been the first major clue. It had been written by some dead occultist who had claimed that he and the rest of his order had succeeded in invoking and trapping the King of Dreams. The book had been vague and full of strange claims about archaic powers and curses and nonsensical and far-fetched boasts about demon invocations and boogeymen.  
He would not have believed any of it until he had read the description of the creature they had caught. The bone-white flesh, the solid black eyes, the messy dark hair. It had to be him. It just had to be.

The book hadn’t said where they had captured the being (whom Hob angry noticed they kept calling “it” when referencing the capture) but Hob had learned that The Order of Ancient Mysteries was once run by a Magnus Roderick Burgess and this had been his home estate. It now belonged to his son, Alexander Burgess, whom he had fathered very late in life. Alexander would have been quite old by now, himself.  
If they had him, his friend- if they had Morpheus- what were they going to do to him? Pass him along through the generations like some strange inherited pet? Who would get him next? The butler? As far as he knew Alexander Burgess had no children of his own. Would they seal up whatever dungeon they had him in and leave him to rot?

This was still a long shot but Hob had to know. If he was there he couldn’t just leave him at the mercy of these charlatans. And if Hob got arrested for this- well, breaking-and-entering was not the worst crime he had ever been arrested for. He could handle it.  
Hob took the old colt revolver out of the glove compartment. This was also an antique and would have been difficult to smuggle into England today but he had brought it into the country in eighteen ninety-one, so it was long before modern firearm restrictions, and back when smuggling was far easier.

Hob had lead a very colorful and long life. At one point he had even been a slave trader, something that Morpheus, himself, had chastised him for. Hob regretted that now. He regretted that more than anything. He would spend the rest of eternity making reparations for that if he could. How could he have ever been so callous to another human life?  
Morpheus had seemed so revolted. “You take pride in treating your fellow humans as less than animals?” he had him.  
Hob had tried to shrug it off with “Like I said, it’s a living.”  
But Morpheus would not let it be. “It is a poor thing, to enslave another. I would suggest you find yourself a different line of business.”  
Morpheus was right. It was wrong to hold another like that. And if Morpheus was in there he had to get him out now. 

Hob checked to make certain the colt revolver pistol was still loaded. Each chamber of the six shooter held an old bullet. He had tested it only the night before to make certain it still fired. He loathed the idea of having to use it but he knew it would be stupid to go in unarmed, especially since he didn’t practice magick, not really. All he could do was hope a pistol was enough.

_____________________________________________ 

Chapter 4: 

Locked within the crystal ball:

It was early evening. It was hard to tell from where he sat on the floor of his cage but he knew it was early evening. One guard was reading a newspaper. The other had a Stephen King novel. Though Morpheus knew nothing of the technology, the men knew that their wifi devices would not work down there. The rural setting combined with the thick stone walls made it impossible to get a good signal in that dungeon of a cellar.  
There was also the concern of the residual yet powerful magick in the air, which by its very nature, interfered with sensitive electronics and could even cause them to short out. They had been specifically ordered not to use their mobile devices down there and so they had to kill time through other means.

Morpheus watched them with cold contempt. He was measuring how long it took for the one with the novel to turn his page. The other occasionally fidgeted. Morpheus could tell by the man’s eye movements that the fidgeting one was not actually reading the newspaper.  
The man was just seeking out a long word to play a childhood game of seeing how many smaller words he could make with the letters of the longer word he found. It was some kind of time-killer he had learned from spending too many childhood hours in doctor’s offices before wide-spread cellphone and Internet service. 

Morpheus understood nothing of Internet, or mobile phones, but he understood the restlessness of a bored mortal. How often did these restless people eventually drift into his own realm when they got like that? He almost felt jealous of the bored mortal.

There was a noise from above. It was faint as the walls were designed to be soundproof but even in his magick resistant prison Morpheus could hear the scuffle.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to be here! What are you doing!?” Came one voice. There was a sound of crashing furniture.  
“Someone get Maguire!” 

The two guards finally realized something was amiss when the door to the hidden room opened with a heavy creaking sound.  
The one set down his paper, the other- almost in unison-set down his novel. They stood up from their folding chairs. 

At first Morpheus thought he had been psychically touched by his youngest sister, little Delirium, and madness was finally upon him or perhaps his memories were somehow seeping into reality, confusing past for present like psychic imprints and echoes of long ago events.  
He stared in wonder at the familiar yet disheveled appearance of Hob Gadling.  
Hob was wearing a casual suit and open, light colored blazer jacket. It was slightly rumpled, as if he had been wearing it for more than twenty-four-hours and rather restlessly.  
Morpheus was not aware that the suit was over thirty-years-old and very likely the suit Hob had worn to the pub for their centennial meeting that he was now extremely late for.  
Whether consciously or subconsciously, Hob had (on some level) chosen to wear this suit on purpose now. 

Morpheus hadn’t even noticed that he, himself, had risen to his feet. The guards rushed toward the man who seemed both frightened yet determined.

_____________________

Chapter 5: 

The Rescue:

As Hob had raced down the stone staircase, hoping his gut instincts were right, he nearly couldn’t breathe once he entered the dimly lit room. He was panting for breath but then the shock of what he saw caused what air was there to get caught in his throat.

There were two men rising from folding chairs to meet and / or attack him- more likely the latter. And behind them, just barely in view… There he was! Naked and locked inside what looked like a ridiculously over-sized, novelty, snow globe paperweight.

Hob couldn’t hold back a gasp when he saw him. “Gadsbudikins!” He was glad no one was there to comment on the archaic exclamation that had worked its way into his, proudly modern, vocabulary.  
He had never seen Morpheus in such a state. He knew his friend was skinny and pale but to see him like this was something all-together different.  
Morpheus was emaciated. The ribs protruding so that he could see each one incased in milk-white skin. He was entirely naked. He knew his friend’s pride. He could only guess at the humiliation that, alone, must have brought to him. How long had he been in there? Whether a day or a century, ether was too damn long. 

He was distracted briefly by the pitiful sight so he was caught off guard by the punch from the first guard. The other guard was trying to grab his arm. 

Morpheus was barely aware he had placed a hand to the cold, crystalline, glass. When was the last time he had actually touched the wall of his cage? He didn’t leave any fingerprints as he did this. 

In the struggle the first man, the one who had thrown the punch, pulled a knife. Morpheus’ own expression had shifted to one of genuine fear for Hob.

He watched helplessly as the knife pierced the belly of his friend.  
There was a clanking sound as the bloodied weapon fell to the floor.  
Hob doubled over in pain. For a brief moment Morpheus thought he was witnessing his friend’s corporeal end from this extended life- but no. His older sister, Death, had seen to this long ago. 

Hob was in considerable pain but he struggled his way free and staggered back into the mouth of the entrance into the hidden chamber. One of his hands held his wounded belly, the shirt slowly becoming saturated in his red blood. 

A well dressed, older looking, man was coming down the stairs, following the same path Hob had taken. The two guards were readying the next assault when Hob turned, and fumbling, he drew out his pistol. His hands were shaking but he managed to steady himself. 

Paul Maguire (husband to Alexander Burgess, Morpheus’ owner…) raised his hands slightly and took a step back. “Sir, I don’t know what you want but the police have been called.” Paul bluffed.  
“With what you’ve got down here? Yeah, right. Tell me another one. I’m taking him out of here. If anyone tries to make a move…”  
Hob was improvising. He grabbed Paul and drew him close, holding the pistol to the side of Paul’s head, maneuvering to separate himself from the guards by using Paul as a shield. Hob had lived many lives, not all of them honorably, and this was not his first unfair fight.  
“You’re going to open that… Whatever the Hell that is. And let my friend out.”  
“Your friend…?” Paul asked in confusion.  
“Did I stutter?!?” Hob had always wanted to deliver that line, or at least he had ever since he had seen it written on a meme on Facebook. “YOU HEARD ME! Now!”

Paul carefully, slowly, drew out an antique looking key from his pocket, moving very slowly to show he was not armed, and with trembling hand passed the key to the second guard. The one that had not punched or stabbed Hob.

Morpheus took a step back.  
The guard walked to the crystalline cage and put the key into the discrete lock in the base. The crystalline glass slid away at a near invisible seam, creating an opening. Hob shoved Paul, forcibly, back against the first guard. He walked to the cage’s opening. He saw Morpheus just standing there. He took off his own jacket for modesty’s sake. “It’s all right. I’m getting you out of here. Come on.”  
Hob’s foot lightly brushed over the binding circle. It was hard to tell if it was deliberate or not but the deed was done, the circle was breached.  
Morpheus stepped toward him. And for the first time in over a century he spoke out loud. His voice partly psychic, heard in the mind and audible at the same time, seemed feeble and weak from lack of use. “Hob…? Hob Gadling?” he asked as if not entirely certain he was really there.  
“Yeah. It’s gonna be all right. Come on.” 

The two guards and Paul seemed uncertain of what to do next. They hadn’t exactly fully prepared for anything like this despite the years of meticulous care to make sure the prisoner did not escape.  
As soon as Morpheus was out of the cage and past the edge of the binding circle, Hob draped his jacket over his narrow shoulders.  
“Cheese and crust! What did they do to you?”  
Morpheus opted against answering but he held the offered jacket tightly over himself.  
Hob, holding the pistol in one hand, placed his other arm around Morpheus, escorting him up the stairs and outside the house, no one tried to stop them. Morpheus stumbled weakly but he steadied himself each time this happened.

As soon as they were off the Fawny Rig grounds, just past the old iron gate, Morpheus stopped in his tracks, barefoot and mostly naked, but oblivious to any chill.  
He was staring up at the stars. He hadn’t seen them in over a century. Hob simply let him look. They certainly were beautiful. The stars gave the illusion of permanence. But for all the change that might happen there were still stars in the darkness, even if one burnt out and another was born, there they were- always and forever. Maybe that’s what immortality really was, the willingness to be ever-changing and yet ever constant, like the universe itself. 

After some time Morpheus spoke, his voice still weak. “I have to… I have to return to…”  
Hob looked down at the weak, semi-skeletal figure that he was supporting. “Return to where you originally came from?”  
He nodded.  
“Okay. How do we do that?”  
“You must sleep.” He said simply, clutching the jacket around himself.

_____________________________________________ 

Chapter 6: 

Rest: 

They walked for some distance. Every so often Morpheus lost his footing and almost toppled but each time he stumbled Hob caught him.  
At one point he was certain Morpheus was looking at the blood on his shirt in concern at the stab wound.  
“It’s nothing.” Hob assured him. “I’ve had worse. I don’t think they’re chasing us but we really need to keep moving. ”

When they finally reached the convertible, Morpheus stared at the automobile blankly.  
“Oh, that’s just a horseless carriage. We call them cars now.”  
“I see…”  
Hob opened the passenger door for him and pushed the book off the seat. Morpheus understood to climb inside onto the seat. After he got in, Hob shut the door behind him.  
Hob went to the driver’s side and climbed in, seating himself. After shutting his own door he started the engine (which took several tries, as the car looked pretty but lacked functionality) but soon they were on the road away from Fawny Rig.  
Hob didn’t bother to tell his companion to put on a seat belt. Any sort of restraint seemed like a bad idea right now, as if it was something that could potentially trigger post traumatic stress. He already half-imagined that Morpheus would develop some kind of permanent claustrophobia after that long captivity and that seemed perfectly reasonable to him right now. So he didn’t ask him to put on a seat belt. And it was not likely either of them were about to die from a car crash. 

After a quick stop at small convenience store they continued on the road for some distance and finally they reached the hotel parking field.

Hob looked at his friend, trying not to show the pity he felt. Instead he reached into the glove compartment and took out the small bag with the new bottle of extra strength Unisom sleeping pills he had just purchased at the convenience store.  
He aligned the arrows on the child safety cap, removing the cap easily, and then punctured the seal with his thumb, taking out several small capsules into his hand.  
He then removed the cap from the small bottled caffeine-free Coca-Cola he had also purchased and had been in the bag as well, with the bottle of Unisom sleeping pills.  
“Well, bottom’s up.” He raised his bottle as if it was a wine glass and then gulped down the five or so pills he had in his fist with a healthy swig of the soda. 

Hob wasn’t certain if the amount of sleep aid capsules he had just swallowed was enough to potentially harm an ordinary man, but he knew he was not an ordinary man. And his adrenaline was too high right now. There was no way in Hell he was going to sleep without chemical assistance. 

“Hob?” Morpheus looked as if he wanted to say something.  
“Not now.” Hob said. “I’ll never get to sleep if you start chatting. Save it for when we get you home.” He said this as if Morpheus had ever been the talkative one. He knew he wasn’t. 

There was a trace of a smile on Morpheus’ face. “Thank you…”  
“No problem. What are friends for?” He half expected the old tantrum to flare up but there was not the slightest hint of that now. Morpheus leaned back in his own seat to wait.

“I’ll… Turn on the radio while I wait for this stuff to kick in…” Hob said this to break the awkward silence that was threatening his drug-aided nap.

By some twisted irony the song Mr. Sandman by The Chordettes was playing. Hob gave an uneasy laugh. “Bet you hate that song, don’t you?”  
The sudden music with vocal accompaniment seemed to startle Morpheus at first but his tension faded with Hob’s own nonchalantness about it. “Actually… I have never heard it before…”  
“It’s about you… I think…”  
“Is it really?”

_________________________________ 

Chapter 7:

Home:

The song wasn’t even over yet when Hob found himself standing in a dimly lit pub in the fourteenth century. And there was his friend, quite naked, and seemingly indifferent to his own nakedness. Hob figured Morpheus must have left the jacket in the car.

His friend was crouched in front of the fire place, tearing into a leg of mutton from someone else’s plate. Curiously the tavern was empty except for the two of them, and yet several tables were loaded with untouched drinks and dishes of food.  
Some of the food didn’t really belong in this time period as they had not been invented yet- like chimichangas, New York style pizza, Kentucky fried chicken, and Twinkies. These anachronistic snacks and meals were the first give-away that he was dreaming.

Morpheus helped himself to the diverse array of strange foods. A little of this, a little of that, he was gobbling as much of it up as he could. He seemed famished, eating as much as he could, as fast as he could.

“Hey… Maybe you should take it easy?” Hob said in concern. “You know when humans are starved for a long stretch of time they have to slowly reintroduce their body to solid foods. Maybe start with some soup? …Or you could just eat the entire bucket of KFC… Sure. Why not?” 

After he had his fill Morpheus stood and seemed to be concentrating. Slowly something swirled up around him like dust… or sand. Yeah, it was glittering, golden sand.  
From that sand dark robes were taking form on his body. Seamless and not quite stylized in any particular way. Hob felt that at the moment the feebly conjured clothes vaguely resembled a black Snuggie. 

With some cold determination Morpheus walked out the door of the pub and into a surprisingly beautiful night, with a sprawling nebula smeared overhead like oil paint.  
Hob hastily gave chase “Hey! Hey, where you going?!”

Outside the pub there was a beach. Funny. There was never a beach so close to the pub before but then Hob remembered this was a dream. Morpheus was kneeling in the sand, gathering some of it.  
“Hey, what are you doing?” He caught Morpheus’ wrist.  
Morpheus did not shrug him off. “I have to get my revenge.”  
“Revenge on who? Roderick Burgess and his crew are dead!”  
“His son yet lives.”  
“His son? You’re going to go after his son?!”  
“You disapprove? His son could have freed me. I would have shown him mercy if he had let me go. Instead he kept me as his father had, threatened, insulted, and tormented me. He must pay.”  
“He didn’t know! He didn’t know what to do and you probably scared him. I’m not justifying it but I’ve lived long enough to know revenge isn’t going to make you feel any better.”  
“But I… I waited so long…” He sounded uncertain.  
“You’re sick. You could barely stand. You’re still recovering. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to be wandering around in a half-finished Snuggie. You’re going to waste what little strength you have getting revenge on someone whose biggest crime was apathy and being a jerk?”  
“What is a Snuggie?”  
“Never mind that.” Hob said with a shake of his head. “Revenge isn’t worth it. You’ve got to forgive him. You know as well as I do revenge isn’t going to bring you any real satisfaction.”  
“Who are you to tell me what will satisfy me or not?” Morpheus said angrily.  
“The man who just saved your life! That’s who! You can listen to me or not, that’s up to you.” Hob let go of Morpheus’ wrist. “But the way I see it... You need rest. You need to recover. And you need to learn to forgive. Going after Burgess’ kid, who inherited you like a pet parrot, isn’t going to make you feel better. You’re weak and you need rest. Is there any where I can take you where you’ll be able to do that?”  
“You’ll be waking up soon…”  
“So hurry up then and tell me.”

Hob walked beside his friend, down the twisting. dark path, surrounded by gnarled old trees. Up ahead was an old house, probably eighteenth century or early Victorian. And next to that house was a graveyard beside a similar, somewhat larger house. “You sure this is where you want to go?” Hob asked.  
Morpheus nodded.  
“It looks like The Crypt Keeper lives here.”  
“Something like that…” 

It was the pudgy one, Abel, who opened the door to the house of Mystery. The thinner one in the pince-nez spectacles, Cain stood behind Abel. Both looked stunned at who was at the door. 

Hob stood with the weakened Dream King leaning on him. Behind them was the dopey eyed, dog-like, big, green, gargoyle that had followed them as soon as they entered the gate.

“Can you two look after my friend? I think I’m starting to wake up….”

Before Hob could get an answer he found himself back in the driver’s seat of the parked car. He looked to the seat next to him. It was empty except for some glittering dust and his jacket.  
He noticed something else too. The pain in his stomach, where he had been stabbed, was entirely gone. He would have healed on his own, mind you. A wound like that couldn’t kill him, but it took hours, if not days to recover from such an injury. Now it was as if the wound had never happened at all.  
Morpheus had heeded him. He had listened about not wasting his energy on futile and cruel revenge. Instead he had spent his energy on something far more important. He had used what little strength he had to heal his friend… 

______________________________________ 

Chapter 8:

You’ll meet friends in the Dark:

The funny thing about having a friend who is the King of Dreams is it’s hard to tell when something really is just a dream. He worried that the part about delivering Morpheus to that old Haunted House to be tended to was just in his own mind, a fevered and addled dream from injury and over-the-counter sleeping pills. 

Hob sat nervously at the pub. The meeting was now some decades late. He sincerely hoped the part of his recent adventure that took place in dreams was real. That sounded silly to him upon reflection: “the part that was in dreams was real...”

Nervously he sat, worried his friend was not coming. And then he saw him as if he had been there the whole time. Morpheus stood in a modern, long, leather jacket. His messy dark hair slightly more stylized. His skin still bone-white, his look still improbably slight, features still gaunt, and thin. The eyes were black but the tiny star-like pupils in the middle of that blackness seemed more alert, twinkling with old power.  
“I- I wasn’t sure you’d be coming.” Hob said.  
“Really?” Morpheus was smiling. It was a small smile but it was there just the same. “I have always heard it was impolite to keep one’s friends waiting. Would you like a drink?”

The End


End file.
